


tomorrow can wait (come whatever)

by mistymountainking



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, It started as a joke but oh no now I kind of want it to be real, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Steve Rogers, Oblivious Tony Stark, Past Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Public Displays of Affection, Steve Rogers Feels, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:40:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22248004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistymountainking/pseuds/mistymountainking
Summary: The picture isn’t damning, Steve reminds himself. They aren’t engaged. They aren’t dating. They’rejust friends. The pose is damning enough, but he’d be an idiot if he didn’t admit, at least to himself, that it’shis facethat sells it. His face is why The Picture™ has been the #1 trending thing on Twitter for going on twelve hours, and why Clint whistled Wagner’s bridal chorus at him when they walked back into the tower last night.He looks like he’s in love. Which is fair, because he is. With Tony.His fiancé.***Steve and Tony are photographed mid-battle, which is par for the course. By the time they get home, the whole world thinks they're engaged, which is...not. But it's not a big deal—they'll figure things out eventually.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 595





	tomorrow can wait (come whatever)

**Author's Note:**

> written as a prompt fill for anonymous on tumblr, who asked for a Steve/Tony Fake!Engagement AU

“It was a lucky shot.” 

Steve sighs for the millionth time and gives Tony a look. It must need work, because Tony just shoots it back at him tenfold. 

“You say that like this isn’t a big deal.” 

“Trust me, Cap, it’s really not.” Sitting up with a grunt from his supine position on the living room sofa, Tony pops his neck once and drops his shoulders, tired—seemingly—at last. “More to the point, it won’t happen again.” 

He doesn’t let himself linger on the feelings that elicits, even if they are bubbling right under the surface and dangerously close to what one might call _disappointment_ , but that’s not what they’re discussing right now. Pushing his misplaced feelings aside as has become the norm recently, Steve watches Tony—bruised and tired and favoring his left side following their latest battle against Doom—stand up and disappear FRIDAY’s projection of the image with a flick of his wrist. 

Face to face now, it’s hard to ignore the familiar ache of want that shadows most of Steve’s interactions with Tony nowadays. Hair in sweaty spikes, purple under the eyes, blood crusted in a jagged line above his eyebrow, Tony somehow looks awful and gorgeous at the same time, and Steve wants, god, he _wants_ to take care of him. Take him upstairs, clean him up, put him to bed to sleep for at least twelve hours. Wants to wake up next to him in the morning and kiss him first thing. 

“—over with?” 

He’s so distracted by the man he doesn’t even realize Tony has asked him a question until Steve is being prodded—literally, Tony pokes him in the shoulder—to respond. 

“What?” 

Tony just shakes his head and smiles softly at Steve, taking Steve’s harebrained response in stride like being ignored is no big deal. Steve, meanwhile, could kick himself: he’s put a lot of work into learning Tony Stark these past few years, especially in the wake of the Ultron snafu; he knows better than to make Tony feel like he’s not worth being heard. 

“I said, I can ask Pepper to put together a press conference for us right now if you’d rather get it over with?”

Based on how Tony looks, Steve can guess he’s equally grimy and due for some shut eye. Neither of them are in fighting form at this point. And it’s still…a lot. To process, that is. Not that there’s actually anything _to_ process, but just seeing the photo the first time had been enough to put Steve in a bit of a state, and he’s still trying to shake that off. It’s not real, after all. There’s nothing to be in a state over, period. 

That doesn’t mean he wants to let go of the fantasy so soon. And Tony…Tony doesn’t have to know. 

“No, it’s okay,” Steve tells him, watching Tony’s shoulders relax with a noticeable drop of a few inches as he says it. He wants to run his hands over them and draw him into a hug, wrap himself around Tony and never leave. He crosses his arms in front of his chest instead. “Like you said, no big deal. We’ll take care of it tomorrow.” 

“Oh thank god,” Tony groans, head falling back. Steve prides himself on managing to look at anything other than the long, fluttering line of Tony’s throat in that moment. “You’re a saint, Cap. We’ll get it done first thing tomorrow, promise.” 

Steve chuckles. He pats Tony on the shoulder as he walks by, wanting to get out of Tony’s immediate vicinity before indulging himself in ways that may or may not involve some very _un_ saintly fantasies involving that throat. He chalks the feeling of Tony leaning into his touch as exhaustion and keeps moving.

“I guess I can handle being off the market until then.” 

Tony’s hoarse, braying laugh follows him across the communal floor all the way to the elevator doors. 

~*~

It really was just a lucky shot, the more Steve thinks about it. Sitting up in bed Friday morning with the _New York Post_ on his lap and coffee in hand, he analyzes the photo with a more measured eye than he had yesterday, when he’d been so blindsided by seeing _that moment_ caughtin a single frame it’s a miracle he managed to think about debriefing or damage control or anything else related to the battle. 

The scene is typical for Avengers work: rubble, some smoke, a few busted Doom Bots in pieces on the ground. They’d managed to keep the damage nominal and localized, thanks in part to Tony corralling the bots to the North Lawn. But keeping a tight perimeter meant they’d all been at a higher risk of getting hit, and Iron Man had been hit hard. And when Iron Man goes down, he goes down harder than almost anyone on the team. 

Steve sips his coffee, staring at the picture splashed luridly across the front page. Anyone would have rushed to him to make sure he was okay. It’s what teammates do—they watch each other’s backs, pick each other up when they fall. It’s normal. Totally normal. Any teammate would have collapsed on their knees at Tony’s side and pried the faceplate off while crying his name like a prayer, the way Steve did yesterday. 

(It’s good coffee. Fruity and barely bitter. He should ask FRIDAY where she ordered it.)

Tony had been awake, and thank god for that. A little rattled from the impact, but he’d improved the suit’s systems after his last bad fall so that the armor absorbed shock and redistributed it as electrical power. That way, Tony said, the suit would recover faster, as would he. Hypothetically. 

He’d groused at Steve for ruining his helmet and removed it entirely before moving up onto one knee, a wobbly facsimile of Iron Man’s characteristic three-point landing. Steve had moved in front of him to help him to his feet. The Avengers were busy taking down the last of the Doom Bots and paid their leaders no mind once Steve assured them over the comms that Tony was okay; they didn’t see the moment Tony, one knee still on the ground, put his hand in Steve’s and looked up at him like _Steve_ was the sight for sore eyes. 

His woozy-weary _Thanks for the leg up, Cap_ is a far cry from the marriage proposal the paparazzi thought they captured yesterday, and yet: 

**_IRON MAN AND CAPTAIN AMERICA—ENGAGED?_ **

The picture isn’t damning, he reminds himself. They aren’t engaged. They aren’t dating. They’re _just friends_. But now Pepper’s got a PR hellfire to put out, and Steve woke up this morning wishing the floor would open up and swallow him whole, so it’s not exactly harmless. He’s pretty sure he’s been blushing redder than a fire engine since Sam texted him a screencap of a tweet that was just The Picture™ and “?!?!?!?!!?!?!??!?!?!” for 280 characters. 

_When were you gonna tell me, man?_

Steve could cry. If he really wanted to, he could. He kind of wants to. The pose is damning enough, but he’d be an idiot if he didn’t admit, at least to himself, that it’s _his face_ that sells it. His face is why The Picture™ has been the #1 trending thing on Twitter for going on twelve hours, and why Clint whistled Wagner’s bridal chorus at him when they walked back into the tower last night. 

He looks like he’s _in love_. Which is fair, because he is. With Tony. 

His fiancé. 

Just the thought lodges a cluster of something uncomfortably prickly in his chest. Steve puts his coffee down and massages the heel of his palm against his sternum to try to ease the anxiety blooming there. 

It’ll be fine, he reminds himself. Like Tony said: _not a big deal_. 

***

It’s not a big deal when Tony texts him that afternoon to say there was a delay in scheduling the press conference—Pepper is in Tokyo and wants to be there in person to help with damage control. They’ll do it Monday. Tony offers to take him out to a nice dinner to make it up to him, and Steve couldn’t have said no if he wanted to (which he didn’t). He spends the entire meal trying not to fantasize about playing footsie with Tony under the table as he listens to him talk excitedly, animatedly about the latest updates to Steve’s suit. 

After almost an hour, Tony apologizes for hogging the conversation and Steve can’t hold his tongue: “Maybe I like listening to my _fiancé_ be a genius out loud.” Tony’s poleaxed expression is _priceless_ , and he’s still bright red and tongue-tied when the chef personally brings out a heart-shaped chocolate soufflé drizzled with seedless raspberry sauce and dotted with gold leaf to congratulate them on their engagement. They eat it, of course, and Steve may enjoy listening to Tony’s delighted moans and gasps more than is appropriate. He certainly can’t help but reach out and wipe away a bead of raspberry sauce from the corner of Tony’s mouth when he sees it. 

Later, Twitter gets hold of a picture of them walking out of the restaurant, smiling goofily at each other and totally unaware of any photographers. _#SuperheroDateNight_ is trending worldwide by the time they get back to the tower. 

Turns out, every late night host has a joke written for the Cap/Iron Man union. The Avengers laugh at every single one of them. Steve’s neck aches from the effort of not looking at Tony, who sits next to him on the couch in silence the whole time.

*** 

It’s not a big deal when Steve, walking back to the tower after his standard Sunday morning thirty miler, is approached by a throng of reporters just outside the front doors. Their questions follow a single obvious thread, and for some reason, he’s compelled to reach for his phone. 

“Mornin’, Cap.” Tony sounds perky, but not in a well-rested, coffee-and-a-shower kind of way. He sounds breathless, almost manic, like Steve’s the first person to bring him up for air in hours. 

“We’ve got company, Tony.” He knows Tony can hear the reporters through the receiver, but the cursing on the other end of the line confirms it.

“Be right down,” he says, and in less than three minutes Tony Stark is strolling out through the front doors wearing bright red sunglasses paired with the shirt, belt, and trousers from the suit he wore to dinner last night. He dives straight into the melee, all flashy smiles and smart one-liners, saying _It’s a private matter_ and _We’ll fill you all in tomorrow at the press conference—until then, we ask for privacy_ , and Steve reminds himself it’s not a big deal when Tony beckons him over with a waggle of his fingers and holds him by the elbow once they’re standing side by side, or when Tony reaches up on his tiptoes to plant a big kiss on Steve’s cheek, setting off a flurry of pops and flashes. 

He doesn’t hear Tony’s answer to any other questions after that, but he is acutely aware of Tony’s warm and steady [left] hand on the small of his back guiding him into the tower to safety.

Blessed silence envelopes them as soon as the doors close. When they reach the elevator, Tony drops his hand. In a flash, Steve reaches out and takes it before Tony can shove it back in his pocket. He looks past the fiery shield of Tony’s sunglasses directly into the man’s eyes, which are widening the longer Steve touches him.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, squeezing Tony’s hand. He doesn’t thank him _enough_. If Steve brushes a finger over the empty space where a ring should be before he lets go, that’s for him to toss and turn over later. 

Tony’s expressive mouth is slack with surprise and Steve wants to know what it would feel like against his. When the elevator doors open, it slams to like a gate. Recovering quickly, Tony gives him one of his trademark smiles and gestures at the empty elevator with a flourish. 

“After you, _fiancé_.”

He doesn’t have the heart to ask Tony to call him that for real. 

***

It’s not a big deal when Sam, Natasha, and Clint corner him in the kitchen on Sunday night as he’s fixing a plate to bring down to Tony in the workshop. 

“Fess up, Rogers.” 

“Have you and Tony seriously been seeing each other all this time?” 

“I thought we were _friends_ , man. You’d rob me of my chance to give _Tony Stark_ the shovel talk?” 

Should he tell them the truth? Or does he reinforce the fantasy he’s been happily living in for the past few days? Natasha will see right through him, either way. By the look on her face, she already does. 

“We’re not actually engaged,” Steve mutters. Clint throws his hands in the air and stomps off cursing like _he’s_ the one who’s been suffering under this misunderstanding. Sam comes to stand next to him, leaning against the kitchen counter, eyeing the still-cold plate of leftover lasagna in Steve’s hands.

“So the picture—”

“A lucky shot,” to use Tony’s words, even though _lucky_ isn’t a word Steve would use in this situation. He feels decidedly _un_ lucky. He feels like he’s gotten the heady hint of a taste of what he wants most and can never have and come tomorrow he’ll go back to the way things were, keeping Tony at arm’s length when he wants to hold him close. The Picture™ is seared in his memory, as is the moment itself: Tony, kneeling. Their hands clasping, holding. Tony’s smile. The smile Steve only ever sees directed at him. 

“So Tony doesn’t…?” 

“No. Just me,” he says, looking at the floor. “It’s not a big deal.” 

Natasha opens her mouth to say something when the elevator doors open with a light _ping._ Tony strolls around the corner into the kitchen, still pink from a shower, wearing a cheap white T-shirt and expensive jeans, humming a classical song Steve recognizes but can’t remember the name of off the top of his head. Even at this sorry moment, Steve is helplessly enamored with the awesome scopeof Tony’s knowledge and intelligence. He wants to bask in it as much as he wants to run away.

Tony halts when he sees the three of them huddled together. 

“Girl Scout meeting? Don’t let me interrupt, but put me down for three boxes of samoas.” He notices the plate in Steve’s hands. He knows they all already ate. “Is that for me?” 

Steve bites his lip. “Uh, yeah. Figured you’d be hungry since you spent all afternoon in the workshop.” 

The smile that splits Tony’s freshly-shaven face is so bright it warms Steve down to his toes. When Tony walks over—barefoot—and takes the plate from Steve, he can feel Sam and Natasha watching the entire interaction with laser focus. He expects Tony’s thanks; he doesn’t expect the second cheek-kiss of the day, let alone one that lands smack-dab on the corner of his mouth. 

“Thanks, babe,” Tony says smoothly, as if he didn’t just come within millimeters of kissing Steve on the lips. As if _babe_ is a word they’ve ever used with each other. When he pulls back, Tony’s face shutters quickly, but even Steve can’t miss the look of pure shock there before Tony turns away. Maybe he can’t believe he said it, either? 

Sam and Natasha stare at Steve with varying expressions of _what the fuck was that?_ as Tony silently busies himself with heating up the lasagna in the microwave. But Steve isn’t looking at them. He’s too busy looking at Tony, distractedly touching the spot where he can still feel the lingering warmth of his kiss. 

*** 

When Steve wakes up Monday morning, the press conference is scheduled, his suit is pressed and ready for prime time, and Tony is nowhere to be found. 

Pepper calls him in a panic; FRIDAY claims she’s been locked out of all communications barring an emergency. Tony’s not in the workshop, nor is he on his floor; every car in the garage is accounted for, even Howard’s old hot rod. The quinjet is still parked on the helipad at the top of the building. Steve looks high and low for Tony, texting Pepper intermittently _still no sign of him._

Rhodey texts him. _He may have taken the suit. Have you tried the compound?_

Steve gets on his bike and hightails it upstate without another thought or word to anyone. The traffic is light once he gets past Yonkers, and it’s a blazingly fast straight shot to the compound from there. He pulls up to the main gate just as the press conference is supposed to be starting—did Pepper cancel it? Is she speaking on their behalf? 

There’s a name for the feeling that fills him at the thought of not being engaged, fake or otherwise, to Tony Stark after today. 

Steve goes from room to room up and down the compound, looking everywhere for Tony, for the suit, for any sign of life. It’s quiet for the summer, and Tony is impossible to miss, unless he wants to be. It happened like this not too long ago, Steve remembers, when Tony and Pepper broke up once and for all—Tony disappeared for days, radio silence, only reappearing when he felt like he was capable of showing face without cracking. He’d been in the tower under their noses the whole time, but Tony had made himself so scarce it was like he’d went and found himself a pocket dimension just to be alone. 

Finally, Steve makes his way to the rooftop. Natasha’s vegetable garden is flourishing in the open air, which smells distinctly of fresh herbs and flowers. The sun is hidden behind clouds at the moment, but Steve can still see Tony clear as day: sitting in the same T-shirt-and-jeans combination from last night, plus a suit jacket to ward off any chill, on a bench. Behind him, the ill-advised extra large gazebo Tony had insisted on during construction stands mournfully empty, a gaping shadow looming over the man in a way that makes Steve deeply, profoundly aware of how _alone_ Tony looks sitting on that bench, staring at his own hands. 

Steve walks right over and sits down without waiting for a word from Tony. A light breeze whips at them, mussing Tony’s hair into a delightful state of chaos, so messy and lovely Steve yearns to run his fingers through it. 

“Pepper’s going to kill me when I get back,” Tony sighs, looking at his watch. The words sound as if they’re coming from far away, like Tony is still in that pocket dimension, somewhere else. Somewhere not here, with Steve, who wants him. Here. With him.

“I’ll protect you,” he replies. Tony huffs a laugh like it pains him. 

“You always do,” Tony says. He won’t look at Steve, even though they are sitting an inch apart from shoulder to knee and breathing the same air and have been fake-engaged for going on half a week. “Sorry if I worried you, Cap.” 

“You always do,” Steve smiles. It gets a real laugh out of Tony, albeit a short one. There are sunflowers up here—he didn’t know Natasha planted sunflowers. “What happened, Tony?” 

“I ran.” 

“Why?” 

“It was easier than going through with it,” he says, fingers fidgeting in his lap. It always strikes Steve as incredible, the fact that so few people know this side of Tony Stark, or know that it even exists: this is the same man who fended off an entire phalanx of reporters for Steve, a man who can charm his way through an entire room like it was a dance, a man who gives away billions faster than he can make them. And here he is now, hunched in on himself, fidgeting and quiet, breathless after just a few words. He sounds like he’s dreading whatever’s about to happen to him—to _them_ , Steve realizes. 

The feeling he couldn’t name—dread. He was _dreading_ this moment, just like Tony seemed to be. 

Steve turns his whole head to look at Tony then. He notices the shaking and knows it’s not from wind chill. 

“Tony,” he whispers, just loud enough for the other man to hear. When Tony looks back at him, there are no barriers—no sunglasses, no masks, no playing pretend. Steve’s heart stutters in his chest to see himself reflected in Tony’s warm, brown eyes. He thinks he might want to stay there. He knows that’s what it feels like for him—he’d look at Tony all day, every day, if he could. 

Leaning forward to kiss Tony is the shortest distance Steve’s ever had to travel to feel a sense of belonging. Soft and careful, Steve brushes their lips together once, twice, and when Tony’s mouth parts, he moves in a third time and stays there, kissing Tony until the tension rushes out of him with a sigh that Steve swallows without a second thought. 

*** 

It’s not a big deal, telling the press and the world besides that he and Tony Stark are not, in fact, engaged. It was a lucky shot, that’s all. They sit three feet apart and do not look at each other once in the fifteen minutes it takes to get the message across that Iron Man and Captain America are not in any way together.

A sound of disappointment moves through the room in a wave, but Steve is already following Tony off stage and into the greenroom, too caught up in the little overgrown curls at the nape of his neck to care about the questions being shouted after them or the sound of tweets being fired off into the ether. 

Steve closes the greenroom door behind him with a chuckle, already opening his arms as he turns around to let Tony in. 

“That was torture,” Tony whines, kissing the base of Steve’s throat and following it with a nip of teeth that makes stars burst behind Steve’s eyelids. “Why did we agree to your plan again?” 

“Because— _uhn—_ my plan doesn’t involve Pepper murdering you with a stapler.” 

Tony is insatiable when it comes to debauching Steve, he’s learned—quite thoroughly—over the past few days. Not that he minds, because he’s not exactly keeping his hands to himself right now, either. They’re pretty evenly matched in that department. But he’s _very_ glad they’re already in the tower and can go straight up to Tony’s floor on the private elevator after this, because he’s not going to be very presentable in about five minutes, judging by the way Tony is mouthing desperately at Steve’s neck as he undoes his belt buckle and fly before sinking down with a lascivious grin to kneel at Steve’s feet. 

“Fair,” Tony laughs, fingers hooked into the waistband of Steve’s navy blue slacks. “But I still get to call you ‘fiancé,’ right?” 

Steve’s blood has pretty much pooled completely south at this point, but his heart still gives a valiant pulse at Tony’s words, his expectant, eager smile. 

Love, Steve thinks, is a much better look on Tony Stark than dread. 

The fact that he’s about to see those pretty lips wrapped around his throbbing cock in a few seconds is neither here nor there. 

He draws a fingertip down the bare length of Tony’s left ring finger with a smile. 

“You’d better,” Steve growls, so low and rough it makes Tony gasp wetly against his crotch, because apparently Tony is _very into that voice,_ “since that’s what I am.” 

Tony yanks Steve’s pants down with a groan. “God, I can’t wait to marry you,” he says, then gets to work. 


End file.
